The sheets of music lay spread out on the table in front of him. He could not pick up a cloth to throw over them – or shuffle them hastily out of sight. He stood up and placed himself in front of them, hoping Acir would not notice.

‘I’m disturbing you,’ his visitor said.

‘Yes. You are.’

‘I came to return the clothes that Sieur Jordelayne lent me. My landlady has washed and pressed them.’ Acir seemed all stiff courtesy once more. ‘But it appears that he is out.’ He placed the neat bundle of clothes on the couch.

‘Out arranging a recital at the Guildhall, I believe,’ Khassian said casually.

Acir nodded. He turned towards the door – and then turned back.

‘Illustre,’ he said, and there was a sudden urgency in his voice, quite unlike the earlier formal tone, ‘I must talk to you. Have you any idea of the danger you are in?’

‘Danger? Oh, you mean the danger to my immortal soul.’

‘I mean personal danger.’ He took a step nearer. ‘Have you ever encountered the Contesse Fiammis?’

‘The name is familiar.’ Khassian was thrown off-course; the conversation had not taken a direction he had anticipated at all. ‘I may have been introduced to her at court…’

‘She is here. In Sulien.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘So you are unaware of her connections with the Commanderie?’

Khassian slowly nodded his head, uncertain what new tactic Acir was employing to sway him.

‘She is dangerous, Illustre.’

‘You’re trying to threaten me!’ he said, laughing.

‘Threaten? Oh, no. Whatever differences there may be between us, I would not stoop to threaten – or to shadow my adversary like some Enhirran assassin. That is not the honourable way. That is not the way of the Guerrior.’

There was an earnestness in that steel-blue regard that profoundly unsettled Khassian. Acir Korentan was no fanatic, seared by dark fires raging within. No, the young man displayed a quite disarming frankness that – and Khassian had grudgingly to admit this to himself – had they not found themselves on opposing sides – he could well have found sympathetic.

‘And the way of the Guerrior is to fight to defend the faith? It would have been so much easier for you if we could have settled this dispute, sword in hand, like men of honour.’ Khassian could not prevent a smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth. And to his surprise he caught the ghost of a smile flickering across the Captain’s stern face.

‘You would have made a more than worthy opponent, Illustre,’ he said, clicking his heels in a formal bow.

And, lacking real blades, Khassian thought, smiling too, I can still duel with words, Captain Korentan.

‘So I am still “invited” to return to Bel’Esstar with you?’

‘A reconciliation, that’s all the Grand Maistre is seeking.’

Reconciliation. The word grated on Khassian’s ear like an ill-tuned string.